


i know i'm not a bad man (i know because i see me in you)

by drqco



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Kennedy Center Chess (2018), Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29691504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drqco/pseuds/drqco
Summary: “…I told Sveta that we’d take the children so they could go on vacation. Then, Florence said, ‘Anatoly, when those kids come back they’ll be pre-diabetic,’ like they don’t come over every other weekend? I have to make up for lost time—Freddie? Are you listening to me?”He isn’t.Becausethis—talking about their children and friends after dinner, washing the dishes together, two glasses of wine sat atop the kitchen counter—is so fucking domestic, it's making his head spin. In a good way. Anatoly has a habit of doing that to him.
Relationships: Anatoly Sergievsky/Frederick Trumper, Svetlana Sergievsky/Florence Vassy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	i know i'm not a bad man (i know because i see me in you)

**Author's Note:**

> b4 we begin! the tags for child abuse, drug use, and self harm are things that are mentioned one time in passing, but i've added them just to be safe. 
> 
> title from epilogue from great comet... also partly inspired by that song i love it ya
> 
> *grabs u* IF YOU WRITE ANATOLY/FREDDIE PLS I NEED TO READ MORE PLS I WILL DO ANYTHING I PARTLY ONLY WROTE THIS FIC TO GET THIS MESSAGE OUT THERE PLS WRITE MORE IM BEGGING PLS ANYTHING ok thats all enjoy

“…I told Sveta that we’d take the children so they could go on vacation. Then, Florence said, ‘Anatoly, when those kids come back they’ll be pre-diabetic,’ like they don’t come over every other weekend? I have to make up for lost time—Freddie? Are you listening to me?” 

He isn’t. 

Because _this—_ talking about their children and friends after dinner, washing the dishes together, two glasses of wine sat atop the kitchen counter—is so fucking domestic it's making his head spin. In a good way. Anatoly has a habit of doing that to him. 

He’s never had this in his life. 

His childhood was filled with screaming and shouting and strange men. There was a time when his father and mother were civil with each other, where Freddie remembers his father playing chess with him—teaching him the Scholar’s and Fool’s Mates. Just for fun. The three of them would go to Central Park on Fridays, take the subway from the Bronx to Manhattan. And even though they didn’t have much, a simple two bedroom apartment in the projects—Freddie remembers being happy. 

But even then, there was never such a thing called domestic bliss in the Trumper household. 

That was until something clicked with his mother. He can’t remember exactly, but one moment they were a happy family and the next, fights and punches and bottles being thrown all around the apartment. Fridays at Central Park dissipated. His father did too. He didn’t even say goodbye. 

Freddie ended up being stuck with a deadbeat mother—who had made it quite clear that she regretted him. (Before everything came crashing down—Freddie wasn’t sure about that.) He remembers his mother screaming for his father to take him to wherever the hell he was going—and Freddie always wished his father did. 

Maybe he didn’t actually love him. They probably never did. 

So when his mother was away doing whatever the _fuck_ she did, Freddie played chess. Filled with his mind with it, let it occupy every inch of his brain because he’d never want to think about his father or his mother. People were fickle, chess was always there. 

Next thing he knew he was meeting Florence Vassy and all these crazy fucking people. Chess became his life. He also developed an addiction to coke and the symptoms of his schizophrenia started appearing more frequently—but no one needed to know that. (Well, too late. The people who are closest to him know. He’s clean now, anyway.) 

And then he met the Russian. 

Anatoly Sergievsky was a shit head—hell, _is_ a shit head. A shit head with a passion for chess that rivals his own, a shit head who could keep up with his insults, and a shit head he found himself so in love with. He doesn’t remember when their insults started have two meanings, when the compliments became much more deeper. 

He does remember kissing Anatoly Sergievsky when he showed up at his apartment just a few years ago, hair longer and looking a bit more fuller. He had just arrived to New York from Russia—where he got Svetlana and his children out. In a weird turn of events, Svetlana was in a relationship with Florence, so when they arrived, they went straight for Florence’s place. Anatoly spoke so softly with him that night, maybe even a bit terrified at the prospect of starting a proper life—a life filled with friendships and relationships and everything in between. Freddie grabbed Anatoly by his collar and kissed him right then and there. 

The two of them still don’t understand why he did that. Out of all the years they spent with each other, Freddie decided _now._ They’re glad he did, though. They fit together. When Freddie falls into an extreme bout of paranoia—Anatoly is always there. When Anatoly has the urge to press sharp things into his skin, like he used to when he lost back then, Freddie is always there. And for every moment in between. Of course they fight, say a bunch of shit during said fights that they don’t truly mean, and have spent time apart. But it was never what Freddie experienced as a child. 

They apologize. They talk it out for once, instead of Freddie getting angry and storming out. They better themselves, and they each help each other to do so. His mother and father never did that. So when Freddie irrationally fears that one day he’ll become one of them—Freddie remembers. He’ll never become like either of them. Freddie swears by it. 

And now he was here, washing dishes with Anatoly _fucking_ Sergievsky, listening to him talk about how the two of them give the children so much candy when they spend their weekends here. 

“Sorry, got a little lost. What happened?” he asks, taking a plate Anatoly passes over to him, so he can dry it. Anatoly smiles softly at him, the wrinkles that have appeared due to age crinkling up. He’s wearing a simple shirt and pajamas—white—which contrast Freddie’s own black pair. The man scoffs and ducks his head, shutting off the faucet and putting back a black ring on his finger. 

“Nothing, Freddie. Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you actually love me.” 

“We’re married, dipshit. Not my fault you blacked out at the wedding,” Freddie rolls his eyes playfully, catching a glimpse of his matching black one. He places the plate in their cabinet. “Admit you love me,” Anatoly singsongs, taking his glass of wine, walking backwards, and out of the kitchen. “Are we going to watch that chess show or not, Freddie?” 

“Whoever talks about their mistakes first loses.” 

“Deal.” 

It’s grossly domestic. It’s cheesy and lovey-dovey and Freddie likes to think that this is what he’s longed for his whole life. Bliss and cheesiness are things he’d never have associated with Anatoly Sergievsky—but life changes, he supposes. And Freddie hopes, to the deepest extent, that this is their happy ending. He hopes to have more, for once.


End file.
